Selective Memory

The title of my last entry, I have just learned, may need to be revised. This is something that I thought I remembered my mother saying when we’d come home from our family adventures. (Like driving to Florida, or New England, or Yellowstone…3 times.) I’m sure it had to come from a riddle or rhyme or song, but I couldn’t quite place it. I spouted it off to Tim once early in our relationship, expecting that everyone said that as they pull in the drive. He looked at me like I had three eyeballs. What? You don’t say that? Huh. At that moment, I shrugged it off. Perhaps it was just one of the quirky things that the Hulsens did. Like singing songs from The Muppet Show.

I vowed to ask my mother later, which I plum forgot for a good long while. Finally, I remembered not that long ago (after so many years of saying this to Tim that it now sounds completely logical to both of us.) My mom had no idea what on earth I was talking about. Huh. Oh well. Fast forward to last week. As I was searching for the title to my last blog, I thought, what would be more perfect? I did, however, send a quick text to my big brother who remembers everything. “Um..Thomas, where the heck did I get this?” To which I had this reply. (I may take some liberties here with what he was implying in tone.)

Dear Little Sister,
You are a moron and confused…again. Think you’re thinking of this nursery rhyme.

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog,
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,
Home again, home again, market is done.

Huh. I sit corrected. And then he lovingly noted, “'Clickety-clack' would only work if it was Thomas the Tank Engine’s trip to the market." Huh again. My world was kinda rocked. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig? Really? Why would one need both a pig and a hog? And what, pray tell, is a plum bun? Is that what happens when sledding goes horribly wrong?

In all honestly, this is not the first time that I’ve “remembered” things from my childhood that I find out later to be completely off. For example, I may have thought that my Grandfather was part Indian (and have proceeded to tell people I was part Cherokee) because he had redish skin and collected Native American artifacts. Not so much. Or figuring out a few years ago that Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” was ‘prayer’ not ‘prairie.’ (Totally had this image of Jon and Richie in cowboy hats riding horses over the plains.) Anyhoo—thought I’d set the record straight. However embarrassing it might be.

Home Again, Home Again, Clickety-Clack

We’re home. And by ‘home’ I mean Germany. Of course, the word “home” is kinda like “smurf” or “marklar”—it can mean any number of things. Quincy, Peoria, Germany, Van Down by the River…whatever. Guess that’s what happens when you’re a nomad.

Anyway, the flight was good except for the first hour, which was a teensy bit turbulent. I may have double- (read: triple) checked for the barf bag. (How long does it take Dramamine to kick in?) Got our luggage without any problem, which was a festivous miracle. You would not believe what Tim and I brought back. Let’s just say that this was a very lucrative Christmas for the Klaus Haus. We were under the assumption that the gift-giving portion of the holiday would be reigned in a little. But, no. Pretty sure our families are going to single-handedly pull the U.S. right outta recession. May I also note that everyone gave us great and thoughtful gifts, but perhaps a little on the bulky/heavy side. Trying to pack a cookie jar, leaded china, a ski helmet, about 6 hard-back books and a golf club got a little interesting. (Also interesting, we had asked for most of it. Duh.) I will say, nearly all made it here. Except the golf club. Apparently, the airlines think it warrants “weapon” status. (Little do they know, I’m a heck of a lot better with a high heeled shoe. More wieldy. In college, I used a black pump as a hammer more than once.)

We walked in the door to our house and were immediately pounced on by two very excited and attention-starved kitties, whom have been gorilla-glued to us ever since. They seemed to do pretty darn well for being left alone for three weeks. (Yes, we did have someone coming in to check on them.) There was a small sign of rebellion though. Think they set off a cat-hair bomb. No joke, cat-hair everywhere! Our rugs look like they’re wearing fur coats. How could this much hair come off of two rather small creatures? Unbelievable. Isn’t it winter? Shouldn’t they being putting on their heavy coats? Then why in all things seasonal, is it all over my floor, couch, bed, carpet...

Other things that greeted us? Some goodies that got left in the fridge to decay (always fun) and a very sad looking Christmas tree. To begin with, our tree was not quite as manicured as the ones in the states. A little pear-shaped to be honest. Now its saddlebags are sagging, the garland is drooping, and the ornaments closer to the ground are now actually on the ground. Charlie Brown would have loved it. Home Sweet home.